Hustle Read online

  “Fuck you, Terry. You’re gonna help me. You’re in this far, you can fuckin’ well see it through. Don’t act like you’re doing me any favors. We both know you need the money.”

  “I said she’ll be here tomorrow and she’ll be here. She had some sort of personal problems. I can’t control that shit, you know that.”

  “Why do we even need that cunt anyway?”

  “Because, Dustin, my boy, we have to keep this legal. It’s going to be contested most likely, and you don’t want any chinks in your armor.”

  Gabriel felt an icy hand at his shoulder. Fear gripped his stomach; he could taste it in his mouth.

  “You need something, Mr. Gabriel?”

  It was Raphael, his hand still cool from mixing yet another margarita.

  Gabriel said, “I wanted to ask about a tooth … you know, just a nightcap, I thought I’d take a drink to bed, help me sleep.”

  “It’s no problem, you can have this one. I go make another. You want to say goo-night to the boys?”

  “No, thank you, this’ll be fine. You have a good night, Raphael.”

  “Goo-night, Mr. Gabriel. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

  ***

  Bear was getting drunker by the minute. He, Rivas, and Watson had been sitting in the booth for almost an hour now. Every fifteen minutes, Watson would tell Rivas to go to the bar and get them another round. Jameson for Bear, Jagermeister for Watson, and tequila for Rivas. Rivas was paying for the drinks.

  “Watson, I really need to talk to you about this shit.”

  “All business. Jesus H. Christ, Bear, can’t you just have a good time for a change. It’s always shop talk with you.”

  “It’s not that I don’t enjoy the company of you and your compadre, here …”

  “Or the drinks,” interrupted Watson. “Don’t forget the drinks.”

  “Yeah, them too. But I ain’t got all night, I got some folks waitin’ on me and I was wondering …”

  “You feel like a smoke, Bear? I feel like I haven’t had a cigarette in days.”

  “We just had one about twenty-minutes ago,” said Bear.

  “C’mon,” said Watson. “Let’s go outside and have a smoke. Rivas, you coming?”

  Rivas nodded like a good dog and followed Watson and Bear to the door.

  Sheila made eye contact with Bear on the way out. He knew he was wearing that certain look on his face and knew she was concerned. Her eyes asked, Is everything okay? That’s what he thought anyway. It may have been one of those Please, don’t cause any trouble at my work looks, too. He wasn’t sure; he got both looks from Sheila so often when he’d tipped a few down at the Roadhouse.

  Once outside, Bear shook out a Camel from his pack and wasn’t surprised to find Rivas holding open his box of Marlboros for Doctor Watson. Watson took one without saying thank-you and waited for a light. Rivas quickly produced a Bic and cupped his hand for Watson to light his, then Bear’s.

  When Rivas didn’t light one of his own, Bear said to him, “That’s handy, the Doc smokes ‘em for you, too.”

  Rivas curled his lip at Bear the way a child sneers across the dinner table at a sibling.

  “So what’s got you so fired up you gotta call me at four in the morning, then track my ass down here on a Saturday night?”

  “Wasn’t much trackin’, Watson. You’re here every Saturday night.” Bear took a pull from his Camel and continued, “You know that kid I asked you about last night?”

  “Don’t even bring him up, Bear.” Watson came close to pointing his finger at the big man, but then thought better of it and only used his knuckle, like a politician. “What you did to that boy was atrocious. He called me today from the hospital, wanting to know if I knew you. He said he was robbed and beaten, arm broken in two places. I don’t even want to know why you’d do such a thing.”

  “That’s convenient then, ‘cause I wasn’t’ gonna tell you. I’m looking for someone else. Somebody named Terrence, or Terry. He’s a lawyer, I think.”

  “Shit, Bear. There’re a couple million lawyers out there. I heard once that there’s one lawyer for every three people in the state of California.” Watson leaned on his cane. “That’s a hell of a statistic. You think that’s true?”

  “I don’t give a shit is what I think. This guy, the guy I’m looking for is most likely local, here in Marin.”

  “You in some kind of trouble, Bear. You need representation?” Watson raised his eyebrows, teasing Bear now.

  “I’m not gonna stand here all night being polite, Watson.”

  “You’re real nosy,” Rivas interrupted. “You know that?”

  He hadn’t even spoken for the last half-hour. Bear thought Rivas had gotten so drunk he’d forgotten how. Bear ignored him. “What about it, Watson, you know this fuckin’ Terry, or what?”

  “You don’t have to get rude, okay? He’s thinking about it,” said Rivas.

  Bear turned toward Rivas. “Look, you little fuck, I want to hear you squeak, I’ll step on your toe. Stay outta my line of questioning, so you won’t get any more confused than God has already left you.”

  “Fuck you,” said Rivas.

  “Nice response. You got that written down somewhere?”

  “No, fuck you, man. You come around here asking my friends about my friends and you acting all like some kinda cop. Maybe you are some kinda cop.”

  Bear let the cop slight pass. “Your friend? Did I hear you say, your friend?”

  Watson rolled his eyes and looked around the parking lot. This was going to get ugly.

  “C’mon, Rivas, Mr. Badguy of the underworld, tell me about your friend.” Bear stepped closer to Rivas. Rivas stepped back.

  “Johnny here is my friend. I’m just sayin’, you asking a lot of questions. Any friend of Johnny’s, you know, is a friend of mine.”

  “No, shitbag, you said, your friend. I heard you. Now you’re saying he’s a friend of Watson’s, too.”

  Watson cut in, “I don’t think that’s quite what he was saying, Bear.”

  Bear held up a palm to Watson’s face to quiet him. “Rivas, you know who this fucker is, you got about five seconds to tell me.”

  “Or what?” Rivas sounded like he was back at the dinner table taunting his siblings again.

  Bear said, “My watch runs fast.”

  “Your what?” said Rivas.

  As quick as he could, Bear counted down, “Fi-fo-tree-two …” and punched Rivas hard in the cheek, right below the left eye. Rivas stumbled back, but didn’t go down. Bear stepped forward and hit him again, on the chin this time. Rivas flew back and landed flat on the gravel. He lay there, arms and legs splayed out wide, like he was making dirt-angels.

  Doctor Watson hadn’t moved; he looked horrified. “Bear, Bear, Bear. There’s no need for that. Shit, c’mon, Bear. We’ve all had a few, let’s go back inside and talk about this.”

  “Fuck that,” said Bear. “I been listening to your bullshit for hours now. I want you to tell me what you know about this Terry cocksucker, or I’m gonna kick the shit out of both of you. Right here, right now.” To show Watson that he was serious, he wound up and kicked Rivas hard in the balls. Rivas moaned and curled up into the fetal position.

  “Bear, please, there’s no need for that.”

  “Gimme your phone.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, gimme your phone, Watson.”

  “My phone? What for?”

  Bear didn’t hesitate. He reached out and grabbed Watson’s shirt collar and pulled the man toward him. He twisted his hand in the material to tighten his grip, and then felt inside Watson’s jacket pockets for a cell phone. When he’d found it, he pushed Watson back hard enough to make him fall on his ass. He crashed backward as his cane flew into the darkness to his left.

  “Thank you. You’re so fucking helpful,” said Bear, slightly out of breath. Bear turned on the phone and found Watson’s contacts, scrolled down to the T’s. There it was—415-626-47—the same n
umber. “You shitbag, I ought to fuck you up just for giving me the goddamn runaround.”

  Watson was getting up off the ground, dusting himself off. “Oh, that Terry, I thought you said, Terrence. This gentleman I know by Terry.”

  “He’s a lawyer?”

  “I believe so. At least he used to be a lawyer. I think he might be in real estate now.”

  “Real estate, huh? Let me ask you this, you know where he lives?”

  “Bear, you know, some of these people. They’ve got their fingers in so many pies.”

  “I’m gonna ask you once more, Doctor. If you don’t tell me, you’re going to need a doctor—a real doctor. You get me, bright boy?”

  “Shit.” Watson looked at the gravel at his feet. He glanced around for his cane. He seemed to be weighing his options. He seemed utterly deflated; he dropped his pompous tone. He voice sounded dry and quiet. “He has a house up by Stinson Beach. A huge place, it’s up in the hills though, past Stinson a ways.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I’ve only been there once and I was fucked up, okay? Just one or two roads past the town. You take a right; turn up McKenzie or McKenna, something like that. It’s up a few miles of turns. You can’t miss it, the place is huge. Faces the ocean. The entire front is glass, plate glass, looks like a giant mirror.”

  Bear stepped again toward Watson.

  “Bear, please, I’m serious. That’s all I know. That’s all I got.”

  Bear scowled, “If you’re bullshittin’ me, Watson, I swear, I’m coming back and I’m gonna sink that piece-of-shit boat you live in, in the middle of the night, when you’re dead asleep.”

  “Awe, c’mon, Bear. We’ve been friends a long time.”

  “No, I’d say we were more like acquaintances.”

  Bear turned and kicked Rivas one more time in the stomach. Not too hard, he just didn’t like the son of a bitch. Then he walked back into the bar to have Sheila pour him a double. Watson didn’t follow; he was done with the Roadhouse for tonight.

  Chapter 16

  As soon as Donny pulled on his jeans, he knew the pockets had been emptied. The three fifties, his hotel key, even his disposable lighter—all of it: gone. That sick fucker had robbed him. He slumped down onto somebody’s stoop. He was far from home. It’d be a long walk in his condition. The pain in his rectum flared as soon as he’d stopped running. The adrenaline had worn off, so, too, had anything else in his system. He felt exhausted, abused, and, to add to the misery, he was getting dope-sick.

  He hadn’t bothered to grab his jacket when he ran out of there so he had no cigarettes either. Pathetic. He sat on the stoop and pulled his knees as close to his chest as he could. No money, no smokes, no drugs, far from home without even a jacket. And no shoes, he ran out of there without his goddamn shoes. He felt like crying. His eyes were already watering from the withdrawals. He felt the familiar gurgle in his stomach that could only be quelled by junk. He hated his life. He hated himself.

  If he could get into his hotel room, he could pound some cottons and maybe beat out enough dope to get well, but it was too late to wake his hotel manager and get a replacement key. The prick would want ten bucks for it anyway. He could head back to the corner and see if one of the guys could lend him twenty bucks to cop, but even then, he had no works, no spoon, and no way to call his dealer. His phone was probably long gone with that Dustin character. He tried to recall the number for Jose in his head, but came up blank. He wished he could sit where he was forever. Let the sun rise and warm him, wait for the sickness to pass. But it wouldn’t pass, not for days and days and days.

  He had no choice but to hoist himself up off the stoop and begin making his way back to the Tenderloin and hope that he didn’t start puking before he got there.

  He realized he was in Stevenson Alley, only a few blocks from the Travel Lodge. As he shuffled in the direction of his neighborhood, he was forced to pass the motel monstrosity once again. He looked up at the place—the wall of identical orange doors layered up three stories—and spied room 237. It was closed and quiet and looked like any other door up there. No signs of life. He wondered if that sick fuck was still in the bathroom smoking crack. Donny lost it and began puking right there on the sidewalk. He heaved and heaved until there was nothing but bile left.

  The retching left him gasping for air. He slumped back against a parking meter and sucked in what oxygen he could. He noticed the sky over the roof of the Travel Lodge Motel was turning from black to gray. Soon it would be blue. A light, hopeful blue, morning was coming. How long had he sat there? He had to get up, keep moving. One way or another, he’d get well soon.

  Donny got up and pointed himself toward home. Either his hotel or Rich’s. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but it was only a matter of counting down the hours until he was supposed to meet Bear. He walked as fast as his stocking feet would carry him. He was in pain from being violated, but his entire body was now aching. His nervous system was put on high-alert from the lack of junk. His pain receptors were ratcheted way up. He was in full withdrawal now. Every step, every movement, rocketed pain throughout his body. His skin began to hurt. The goosebumps from his chills, his fever, prickled and annoyed him. Even his hair hurt.

  He kept his eyes on the sidewalk, hoping to spy a healthy enough cigarette butt to pick up. There were none. Even if—when—he reminded himself, he did spot a decent smoke, he didn’t have anything to light it with. He felt his stomach seize. His intestines rumbled. He stumbled forward. Lunging, grunting, whimpering. People on the sidewalk pulled back from him. Whether they did it out of repulsion or caution, Donny didn’t care. He was an animal now, moving ahead on raw instinct.

  ***

  Bear woke up thirsty. It took him a moment to figure out where he was. There was a ceiling fan spinning directly over his head making him nauseous. Sheila’s fan. Sheila’s apartment. He was on Sheila’s couch. Not a good sign if he didn’t make it into her bed. Sheila must be pissed. Before he tried to piece together the end of the evening, he needed water.

  He pulled himself up from the couch and stumbled into the kitchen, the hardwood floor lurching beneath his feet as though he were on a ship. It was still dark outside, but Bear could see the sky had begun to lighten. He made it to the sink and hit the cold faucet. He leaned in and gulped and gulped like a dying man in the desert. When he was done, he stood up straight, felt the water sloshing in his stomach, then leaned in and drank some more.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s alive.”

  Sheila’s voice startled him. He turned to find her leaning against a door jamb, arms folded across her chest. Dressed only in a T-shirt, she looked as though he’d woken her up.

  “Oh, hey baby, what’s up?” His voice was so full of gravel, even Bear hardly understood what he’d said.

  “Don’t baby me, Bear. Do you have any idea what you did last night?”

  He groaned involuntarily and leaned back against the sink.

  “I’ll tell you what you did. You beat the shit out of two regulars at my work. Two guys who come in almost every night. Then, you come into the bar—my job—and start demanding free drinks. I don’t mind slipping you free drinks, Bear, but to stand there and demand liquor saying we have to ‘pay the exterminator’ was not cool.”

  “I’m sorry, baby.”

  “Oh, I’m not done. It didn’t end there. When I told you that you’d had enough, that the police may show up and haul your drunk ass to jail, you tell me to go fuck myself and climb over the bar and grab yourself a bottle. This is my fucking work, Bear. Do you even get that? Tony the manager was there last night, Raul, Percy, everybody there was a regular.”

  “I said I’m sorry. I had a few too many.” His head was pounding; his mouth had already dried up again.

  “You already said you were sorry, I heard you. It doesn’t undo what happened last night.”

  “It’s been a tough couple of days.” It sounded feeble as soon as it came ou
t of his mouth.

  “I know about your tough couple of days, and, thanks to your loud mouth, so does half of Marin County. Just what I need, a boyfriend who spends his spare time running around San Francisco with a couple of gay hustlers. Do you know how sick that shit sounded? These are my customers, Bear. I have to see them every night.”

  “Look,” said Bear, finally growing tired of what was becoming a lecture. “I’m gonna lay back down on that couch for a couple more hours. You do what you like. When I wake up, we can have a little breakfast, talk this over. If you don’t want to talk, then that’s okay, too.” Bear stumbled back to the couch and flopped down with a loud moan. He heard Sheila mumble something about never cooking him breakfast again, but he couldn’t quite make it out. He covered his eyes with his forearm and waited for her bedroom door to slam.

  ***

  “Good morning, Sunshine.”

  Raphael’s voice was as piercing as the sunlight streaming through the window. The yellows and whites of the guest room were even more abrasive on the eyes than they were the night before. Gabriel lifted his head, looked at the bright, beaming face of Raphael, and laid his head back onto the pillow.

  “Come on, Mr. Gabriel. This is the big day. Terry says to wake you up and make sure you get downstairs. You have to get up and have a good breakfast, then you feel better. I’m making a frittata. Maybe you like a Bloody Mary first, maybe a Mimosa?”

  The idea of alcohol brought forth a wave of nausea. Gabriel lay still under the covers and blinked open his eyes. “What do you mean it’s the big day?”

  “You and your friend have the business with the lady that’s coming. Then we have a little party afterward. Come on, get up. I’ll help you.”

  Gabriel felt Raphael’s weight press onto the bed. The young man was lying next to him. Gabriel turned his head and there was Raphael, beside him with his white robe open, exposing his smooth, youthful brown skin.